I know God is counting the emotion and intention of each hair on the body, abandoning the weight

feeding outlet frustum to our middle-of-
the-night-stirring congregational guilt
until the freedom of a few new days
with the stealing telepic sun arches dry
pitching a rockslide down-mind capsize
to the egalitarian poorly tailored crop joys
souls are only coherent when they are counted
among a few, stolen and soothed – in might

tribulations among the farm and saturated
bi-journeys crawling over crystal glass
land of coughing appendices like a cut
against a motor pool framing hung metal
feeling the nerves and their images
under stethoscope rhymes and triangular chimes
a rockslide prism never donated to a tenor
or a relief for weddings or a walkway dense
health did not denote the watch-gross closure
or siphoned walk that marked our gifts
here did it abet us like a primitive pleasing fear
on his couch seat lacking sight of God

Malachi’s succinct observation, that we reject
offerings, holding ourselves back again,
that we cry with burdens like a parent’s
second marriage, a now aging generation
there was no concrete counterculture
that did bring redress to the tempered crass matter
but here we are all hallucinating a second taking
at the table as though we could be coerced

grand intuition of the rockslide did bring the concert
outlasting like figments of garden hymns coiled,
feathered attempts to manage the self in conjecture
with hyper-lantern ashes under rooster highs
just wait for the ceiling calling out her imitating
antediluvian metrics that did not know how to find me
there was no one on my side of the falling away
outer-ways, leaving me alone with no assistance
and all who were supposed to be there for her,
they were insincere and lied to her about her feelings
it’s the kind of thing only a husband notices
like few notice the rising sea or the impatient God
the earlier ache going away now that where is here
and numbered where soiled admonitions leave